


Neverland

by Zeal_Ambition_Steel



Category: Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Amusement Parks, Angst, Best Friends, Bullying, Character Death, Characters Writing Fanfic, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Dancing, Depeche Mode - Freeform, Developing Relationship, Driving, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Existentialism, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Female Characters, Female Friendship, Feminist Themes, Flying, Friendship, Frustration, Growing Up, High School, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Inspired by Music, Introspection, Mischief, Modern Retelling, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multi, Music, Old School, One-Sided Relationship, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV First Person, Parenthood, Parents & Children, Party, Peer Pressure, Period-Typical Racism, Poverty, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Acceptance, Self-Destruction, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Storytelling, Stream of Consciousness, Summer, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Violence, teen drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeal_Ambition_Steel/pseuds/Zeal_Ambition_Steel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"NEVER GROW UP AND NEVER GROW OLD AND NEVER GIVE IN, JUST THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS AND FLY, DAMMIT," was our credo. We lived free and we partied hard under Peter's reign, we ran through the forests and never looked back and never, never, NEVER saw Peter grow up. He was forever young, he could fly, he could still grin like a child as a seventeen-year old. We lived with him in Neverland, but we also lived with our parents in Kings Landing, Oregon. I was just trying to find the space in between. My name is Wendy Darling, and this isn't Peter's story. This is mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In which, "Never Let Me Down Again," by Depeche Mode births a fan fiction.

Moving from San Francisco to the little town of Kings Landing, Oregon is like skipping from Prince to Roy Orbison on the radio. Total culture shock. 

“Wendy,” Mother sighs. “Why don’t you look outside?” I roll my eyes, returning to my book. 

“Whoa, there were three deer over there!” Mike exclaims. 

“That’s nice, Mike,” I say. 

“What, is it that time of the month?” giggles Jack. I look up from my book to glare at him. 

“Jack, don’t say things like that,” Mother hisses. “Apologize to your sister.” 

“Sorry, Wen,” Jack deadpans. The little snot’s gonna eat shit when we get to the house, mark my words. 

“The moving people are going to be here in thirty minutes,” Father says. 

“About time, too. Otherwise I might miss the special on MTV,” Jack remarks. 

“MTV is crap,” I respond. 

“So’s Billy Idol, but you don’t see me griping,” Jack retorts. 

“And Cyndi Lauper isn’t?” I counter. 

“You’re just jealous because Cyndi Lauper has tits,” Jack whispers. I raise my fist to his bespectacled face, and he withdraws, laughing. 

“Hey, Jack!” Mike calls from the backyard. “We have a forest at the end of the block!” 

“Whoa, really?” shouts Jack, leaping up from the floor. 

“Yeah!” yells back Mike. 

“Just be careful, dears,” Mother tells them. “Don’t go wandering off too far, is all.” 

“Alright, Mom,” mumbles Jack. He dashes after Mike, who’s already sprinting down the street towards the forest. 

“Looks like it’s gonna rain soon,” Father observes. “I just hope the moving men don’t get everything wet.”

“That would be a shame,” Mother agrees. I tilt my head back against the wall, staring up at the peeling white paint on the ceiling. This whole move was such a downer. What’s the point? It’s not like Dad’s gonna find work in this dump of a village. He was a banker. Who even needs a banker here, when there’s no money to go into the vaults? Graffiti’s everywhere, the buildings all have that special rundown quality to them with weeds growing from the cracks between bricks, the buildings are a uniform grey, and the sky is apparently always cloudy, according to local lore. Father says that the buildings have character, that they’re more authentic than the towering pillars of capitalism in San Francisco or whatever. I like pillars better than barbed wire fences and sullen buildings. 

I smell the cookies before I see them. Grandma’s famous chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies. My mouth becomes a slick cavern at the very scent of them wafting on the air. I hum appreciatively as Grandma enters my line of sight, platter in hand, piled high with my favorites. 

“Where’re Jack and Mike?” she asks, setting the platter onto the coffee table. 

“Oh, they’re just exploring the neighborhood,” Mother assures her. “You know how they are, those rambunctious little boys.”

“Well, they won’t be for too much longer,” Grandma chuckles. “After all, they have to grow up sometime.” She pauses, and that’s when she sees me. Crap! “Wendy, my how you’ve grown!” exclaims Grandma, throwing open her arms and smothering me in her bosom. I raise my eyebrows and pat her on the back. Well, that’s awkward. She releases me, giving me another vertical examination. “Stand up straight, why don’t you? Granny wants to have a look at you.” I clench my abdominal muscles, blowing my bangs up. “Oh, you’ve gotten so tall and pretty!” I shrug. “Mary, why did you not tell me that Wendy was almost sixteen?” 

“Well, I assumed you were keeping track,” Mother says. 

“Never assume that an old lady can remember everything!” Grandma chastises her. “Oh my, Wendy, you’re almost a woman.”

“Please stop,” I groan. I need a room far away from these kooks. 

“But Wendy,” protests Grandma. I stare at the table. “She doesn’t have those flabby cheeks anymore.” She pinches my cheek, and I try to retreat but she holds me still. She withdraws, sighing fondly. “Yes, you’ll be a pretty thing.”

“I don’t intend to become an object anytime soon,” I say. 

“Oh, that’s not what I meant!” Grandma says. I’m sure. 

“Mom, why don’t you leave Wendy to her book? I think she’s tired from the trip,” Mother suggests. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Grandma asks me. No, we are not treading into this territory. I want to flee as fast as I am able, fly from the house and into a gloomy corner where no one will find me. I zip my lips as fast as I’m able. “Oh, she doesn’t have a boyfriend, poor thing!” Please stop calling me a thing, Grandma. 

“Wendy, why don’t you help unpack the boxes that’re already here? Do you want to choose your room?” Mother asks.  
“Sure, I guess,” I reply. 

“The attic’s empty,” Grandma says. “And it’s nice up there, too, if you were wondering.” She winks at me, and I switch on like a lightbulb. 

“Thank you so much,” I gush, hugging her. She pats my back. 

“It was nothing, dear,” she says. “I know how much you loved the attic as a little girl.” I beam at her, and I’m trying not to cry, because it’s Grandma and she made such a grand gesture, allowing me to room in the attic. I nod at her. 

“Thanks anyway,” I say. I pick up a box and practically fly up the stairs, and the attic is gorgeous. Bright blue paint on the walls, a wooden floor…I drop my box on the floor. This is perfect. I twirl about, raising my arms in the air like Blondie when she dances, whipping my hair about. I slow in my spinning, laughing. Maybe this won’t be so bad. San Francisco was great…but I could start fresh here. Not get bullied. That kind of thing. Sure, I’ll have to call Rachel every now and then to check up on things back home, but…soon I might have friends here, too. It’s all a matter of finding people. This time, I could be popular—as in, I could have friends. I could have a boyfriend. I could go to parties. I could have sex. I could do drugs. I could live in a teenage wasteland like Baba O’Reilly. I lay on the floor and stare up at the ceiling. I could do it all. It’s summer, after all. 

Even though Grandma’s a bit nutty, over-affectionate, and obsessed with impressing her neighbors, she’s so sweet and genuine that it’s hard to be uncomfortable around her for long. She always partakes in these little—or in this case, inordinate, gestures to please the people she loves, to make them realize how much they mean to her. I can admire that, even if some of her life philosophies don’t agree with me. 

I sigh. Even the wooden floor’s comfortable, sodden with memories. This room used to be a shrine for my Grandpa, and she cleared it out just for me. I can remember how I used to stare at his picture. Vietnam War victim, I learned. He died out in Saigon. I wonder how Mother grew up in this house, how she lived with the knowledge that she would never know her dad like I know Father. It’s just one of those subjects that we don’t discuss. 

I go back downstairs to grab another box, stopping when Father’s voice becomes audible.  
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. The bank hired me. I might not make as much as I did in San Francisco, but I’ll be making enough and the taxes here are low enough that we can send Wendy and the kids to college afterwards,” Father assures Mother, holding him. “We’re gonna be alright, I promise.” 

“If you say so,” Mother sighs. I bite my lip. I wait a few moments before entering the room.

“Hey,” I greet them, searching for one of my marked boxes. 

“Here,” Father says gently, lifting the box and dumping it into my arms in possibly the most unceremonious fashion he could have opted for. I barely catch it before my arms hit the ground. I grunt as I raise it. 

“What’s in this thing?” I wince. 

“You packed it,” Mother scolds me. I scowl, trudging up the stairs, back bent over the box. This is going to be a long few days.


	2. It's a Hard Knock Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring Kings Landing with my boisterous family was probably the worst thing that happened that summer. What I found afterwards was probably the best.

"Wendy," Mother calls up the stairs. I look up from my book and take off my headphones, eyes fixed upon the sky blue ceiling that could be heaven. 

"Yes?" I holler back. 

"Tell your brothers to come inside. It's time for lunch!" she yells. I heave a great sigh, hurling my headphones to the floor and bookmarking my page. It's always me who has to fetch the two rascals from the forest. Like I'm their mother. Why can't Mother just do it? She's already downstairs. When I reach the living room, I take a moment to look at her. She's reclining into her favorite tattered red armchair, feet covered in flats propped up onto a stool, legs crossed, book in hand, reading glasses perched over the bridge of her nose. She glances up at me. "Well?"

"I will," I grumble, stomping from the room. I take special care to slam the door behind me. Hopefully she'll jump. I storm down the foreign street, no, it's not my home, it's Grandma's, not mine. San Francisco is home. As much as I love Grandma, this place is drab. There is nothing to do here. We're in the middle of nowhere, Oregon for Pete's sake. How could I have even thought that things would be different here, that I'd magically have friends? And then there's the weather. Don't even get me started on the ominous clouds that loom over this speck of a town. 

By the time I reach the forest's edge, Mike has, for the first time (that I've seen, anyway), succeeded in tackling Jack to the ground. 

"Hey!" I shout. The two of them freeze, their scuffle ending for a moment. "It's time for lunch," I tell them, pointing to the house. 

"But we're having fun," whines Mike. 

"Yeah," agrees Jack. I arch a brow. 

"Really? Roughing each other up is fun?" I drawl.

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to know what fun is," snorts Jack, standing and dusting himself off. Mike scowls at him before unleashing the full force of his wrathful eyes upon me. Sadly, the look resembles that of a constipated boy, eyebrows scrunched together, face contorted. I can't help but laugh at its ridiculous nature. 

"You're not funny!" Mike snaps at me, thundering past me. 

"I wasn't trying to be," I mutter. How was I trying to be funny? All I did was laugh at how far-fetched his facial reaction was to my interruption. I shake my head as I make my way up to the house. No doubt Mother will fuss over Mike and Jack and how filthy they are, ignoring me entirely as usual. "It's because you're the oldest," she always tells me. Yeah right. I'm just not the prodigal son. Sorry, Mother. 

I return home, throw my shoes off, and slip back into my room, shutting the door behind me. I lay on my stomach, hiding my ears behind headphones and hitting play on the tape recorder. Michael Jackson starts playing with his ethereal, high-pitched voice that carries me into blue skies and outer space. I open my book and resume reading. I can pass the days like this with disturbing ease. My biggest problem in regards to money is my lack of resistance to buying books. If you put me into a bookstore, I will inevitably grab everything in sight. When I don't have the money, I make lists of all the books I'll read when I do. I'm kind of like the Clerk in the Canterbury Tales, except better-dressed. Mike and Jack can watch all the MTV and cartoons that they want, but I have something infinitely better—books. 

I finish this one, and set it aside into the pile. I check the clock, lowering my headphones. 7:30 pm. I should probably grab dinner…but I don't even feel peckish. I opt to change into my pajamas and reconcile with my bed instead. I curl into a ball and pretend that I'm in San Francisco. I close my eyes and I can see my old room, smaller as it was, with the dresser in the corner, the bed by the window, the desk near the door, the birds tweeting at five a.m. in the summer, the large hills, the traffic, the water, the Golden Gate Bridge, the vastness of it all, the fountains, the music…I could write songs and hymns for San Francisco, but Kings Landing is worth only a scratchy blues record about a blue-collar job and girl, don't leave me, girl, why you so mean, girl, you hate me, girl, I'm not all you've seen. Or maybe country music or folk music, songs that will deliver the spirit from the drudgery of daily life in the working class, a thankless life, an unacknowledged life, kids who don't appreciate you. The kind of music that I can sometimes tolerate in the midst of all the classical and rock n' roll and pop that I drown myself in. 

There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. Too bad I don't have a pair of trusty ruby slippers. I throw my hands over the covers, opening my eyes and staring straight up at the ceiling. There's a roof of stars above it, stars that thousands of others can see, stars that brought our ancestors home from the roaring seas, stars that slaves used to navigate to freedom, stars that formed constellations devoted to mythological characters, stars that have twinkled for billions upon billions of years and might have already died out but the light is still reaching us and we have no way of knowing without a powerful enough telescope. Isn't it strange, how those tiny twinkling lights will outlive us, burning and flaring in some faraway system, how our lights can dull them, how they can avoid exploding? Why can't we fly, why can't we touch them, why can't we live in dreams if only for a moment, and…why do we have to grow up when my parents aren't happy as adults? 

I roll over again, hands positioned near to my face. I sniff. Why don't I know the answers to the questions that matter? 

When I wake up the next morning, Mother is bustling about the house, barking orders at Privates Michael and John Darling, who have failed to make their beds and eat breakfast. I wipe the grit from my eyes, allowing my hand to collapse atop the cushion of my sheets. 

"WENDY!" screeches Mother. 

"What?" I growl, sitting up in bed. She bursts through the door. 

"Get up right now. We are going to go shopping for school supplies in twenty minutes." 

"Why are we rushing?" I moan, running a hand through my tangled hair. 

"Because I have a few more errands to run than that," Mother replies exasperatedly. 

"Fine," I respond with a signature scowl. "Get out, I'm gonna change." I make a shooing gesture before Mother exits from the room. I close the door behind her and shuffle over to my dresser. My clothes are awful and outdated, but then, most of my shit is. I throw on a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, a pair of shorts, socks, and sneakers, before adding earrings and a headband into the mix. I look alright. Like the nerdy girl who lives next door who you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Still, I look alright. I'm not corpulent, but I'm not a twig, either. Mother says that I am just the right amount of slender. I say at least I have curves and the other essentials. It's just that no one's really paid me any heed. You can't have it all, I guess. 

I shovel cereal into my mouth, throw on a jean jacket, brush my teeth, and off we go, into the exotic world of retail and merchandising! 

"Wendy, why don't you drive us there?" Mother insists. 

"I hate driving," I retort.

"Wendy, you need to practice if you plan to pass the test," Mother points out. 

"What if I don't even want to drive? Did that thought ever cross your mind?" I counter.

"Wendy, you're going to need to drive. What if you end up in an emergency?" Mother says.

"What if I don't?" I say.

"Wendy, it's better to be prepared," Mother tells me sternly. "Besides, driving is like a rite of passage for teenagers."  
I never said I wanted to grow up, either. But instead of saying that, I say: 

"Okay, Mom, if you say so." She hands me the keys and gives me a look that translates to, "Mess up the car and you're paying for it." I adjust the mirrors, buckle my seatbelt, and start the car. The engine sputters to life. I press my right foot onto the brake, shifting into the reverse gear. I'm about to finish backing into the street when Mother shrieks. I slam my foot on the brake as a car zooms by from behind me. I freeze, rigid in my seat. 

"Wendy!" Mother exclaims. "Were you even looking? Did you not see that car coming? You could have damaged the car and injured all of us! Apologize right now and don't you ever do that again!"

"I'm sorry," I breathe.

"Stupid Wendy," snickers Jack. 

"Why don't you try driving then, if you're so smart?" I snarl at him, reversing into the street and shifting into drive. 

"I would, but the dumbest has to go first. It's all in order of intelligence," Jack assures me, prodding at his thick-framed glasses with his hands. 

"Then is Mike the smartest in the family?" I ask, applying pressure to the gas pedal with a cautious fervor. 

"No, I never-" Jack starts.

"It was implied," I interrupt him. Jack kicks my seat from behind and I jolt forward in my seat. "Ow!" I sneak a look over at Mother, but she's distracted by Mike. I love how she always notices when I screw up, but when these two get onto my case? Nope, no help for Wendy. I'm kind of like Eastern Germany. Except not starving or communist. I guess it's a faulty analogy, but…well, I think you understand the point. 

"Wendy! Turn right up there!" Mother says, pointing frantically at an entrance. I slam my foot on the brakes until the speed's reduced to ten miles per hour and I turn right into the parking lot. "Now, let's look for a parking space…there!" I brake abruptly again, the car lurching violently with the motion. I turn into the parking space before parking the car. "Wendy, the car is crooked. Reverse and try again." I reverse left, no right, a little left…and then I drive into the space again. "Better. Wendy, you really need to work on your stopping."

"Well, maybe if you gave me some advance notice, I might be able to have the time to use the brakes so that it's not as bad," I argue. 

"Wendy, this is why your driving test is scheduled in a year and not next month," Mother chastises me. "Now come on, we haven't got all day." We follow Jack and Mike's trail of wild jesting into the stationery store. Mother hands me the list of school supplies I was given. "Make sure you find what you need and only that." 

"Alright," I mumble. I venture into the office supplies aisle, mustering the strength to stare at the shelved items. Last year was awful enough, but now I have to live in a dingy town where I have only one childhood friend from my visits years ago. And what if she doesn't remember me? I have no friends here, no life here. No one knows me, no one will look twice at me. At least people paid enough attention to throw chocolate milk boxes at me in San Francisco. I could get the same treatment here for being new, the equivalent of a high school freshman placed awkwardly into sophomore year. I can't do this again. I take up a notebook, staring down at it. I can't. I put it down. But I have to go to college if I'm to get a proper job. I pick up the notebook, adding six more to my pile for good measure. Plus one more. Just for writing stories. A moving present from me. I pick out some pencils and pens, a compass, a ruler, and folders. The folders won't last. They never do. 

I scour the shop for Mother, Jack, and Mike. I can hear my brothers shouting in the throes of diablerie, unfairly glee in the midst of gray carpeting and fluorescent lighting. Ah, to be a child. 

"Mom?" I yell. Mother approaches me, shopping cart piled high with the essentials for school. 

"Wendy, are you ready to go to the register? We can get a few more things. It's a big store," Mother informs me.

"I could use a sweater and maybe some new earrings," I say.

"And how about a new bra?" she suggests. 

"I'm alright on that," I insist, face going beet red. 

"No, Wendy, you need more bras," Mother argues. A gaggle of boys led by a petite blond girl pass me, sniggering. My face goes red and I tuck my hair behind my ear.

"She doesn't even have anything," one of the boys yells to Mother. The entire group guffaws, and the girl locks eyes with me. I blink, and I feebly raise a hand to wave. She doesn't return the gesture. I thought that Belle would at least remember me, or be sympathetic enough to offer even a smile. But she doesn't. She parades about the store with her posse of boys, wreaking havoc in the aisles of the store. 

"Why did you have to say that?" I mumble to Mother, going straight to the register.

"Wendy," she cries. I can't be in this store anymore. Even the cash register operator stares at my chest and clearly has to stifle a smile. I feel violated on so many levels. It's not like Belle has an ample chest, either, so why does she escape their mocking laughter? I cross my arms over my chest, glancing at the floor, fidgeting in place. I can't be here anymore. My entire body is humming with embarrassment, my neck feels swollen under Sahara desert heat, sweat is drenching my shirt, my eyes are bubbling over with tears. 

I get into the passenger seat and slam the door behind me. Jack and Mike load up the trunk, and I hug my knees and rock back and forth, wiping away the beginnings of a meltdown. Mother opens the passenger door.

"You're driving," she bites out. 

"Why do I have to drive right now? Can't you?" I say.

"Wendy, you have to get better at this," Mother scolds me. 

"What if I don't want to?" I respond.

"Too bad," Mother says. "All independent adults drive, Wendy." She thrusts the keys into my hands and I try to convey all my resentment for her in one look before I sit in the driver's seat, buckling in and starting the car. Mother gets in shortly afterwards. 

"Mike? Jack?" she says to my little twerp brothers. "Do you want candy?" 

"Yeah!" Michael and Jack chorus. 

"Then we'll drive to the candy shop," Mother announces. Can I just kill myself now and save myself from further humiliation? Why does she take me along? Why do I have to be seen with them in public? 

I park crookedly in the space, and when Mother tells me this, I refuse to correct the angle. 

"Wendy, I want you to stay in the car and think about your behavior," Mother says, "and your father will have a chat with you when you get home." She shuts the car door behind her, trailing after Mike and Jack. The tears burst from my eyes. Why does she always do this to me? One misstep and Father's booming voice is delivering diatribes the likes of which would make Jehan and Frollo from that 1920s silent film, the Hunchback of Notre Dame quiver in their breeches. But Michael and Jack? No, they're spoiled rotten. Father often says it's because I'm the oldest, but then, he doesn't seem to acknowledge this fact when he bequeaths his tirades unto me. I'm counting the days until the end of senior year, when I can finally escape them. 

I cry it out into my knees for a few more minutes before I sniff and wipe my tears away. Mother overreacts all the time. That doesn't mean that I have to. I stare straight ahead. I won't let her affect me, nor will I allow Father to unsettle me. I'll just get it over with, go to my room, lock the door, and read. If it's going to happen, it may as well be quick. 

There's a knock on the passenger window. I turn to see a boy with the wildest red hair I've ever seen, a face spotted with freckles, and eyes like the leaves on a sunny summer's day. I snap from my daze to lower the window. 

"Your parking sucks," he informs me. I blink. 

"Well…yeah…I'm fairly new at this whole driving thing," I say carefully. 

"You're making it difficult for the rest of us to park, so lemme help you out." He gets into the passenger seat. "Reverse left." I follow his instructions as he guides me through the tedious process of straightening out the car in relation to the store. "There you go," he says after I park the car. "Not entirely hopeless." 

"Thanks…I guess," I say, peering over at him. He's already getting out of the car. "Hey!" He turns. "What's your name?"

"Peter," he says. "Yours?"

"Wendy." 

"Wendy…" he says, experimenting with it. "I've never met a Wendy before." My name sounds like a mispronounced foreign term on his mouth. I try not to cringe. 

"Well, there's a first for everything," I laugh nervously. 

"Yeah," he says. He goes back to his car and parks beside my own in a swift, fluid motion. He locks the car and goes into the grocery store. The same one Mother, Jack, and Mike are in. I tilt my head back. Can this day get any worse? 

Mother returns with Jack and Mike in tow, both of them obstreperous in their sugar high. 

"Let's go home," she says.

"Notice anything different?" I reply. Mother arches a brow. I motion to the entire car. "It's straight," I point out. Mother nods slowly. 

"Let's go home," she repeats. She tells me when to turn, how fast to drive, WENDY STOP THERE'S A CAR COMING WHY DIDN'T YOU SEE IT, to turn again, and then we're home. 

I retreat to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I climb into my bed to sleep because I have nothing better to do, I'm exhausted, and I feel awful. I curl into myself. 

"WENDY!" shouts Michael, banging on my door. 

"Go away," I yell back. 

"WENDY, DAD'S HOME AND HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!" Michael bellows. I roll out of bed. Apparently this day can get worse. I unlock the door and follow Michael down the stairs. 

Father is seated on the couch, and Mother is busying herself within the confines of the kitchen. 

"Sit," he tells me, face stony. I comply with his demand, seating myself in Mother's armchair so that I'm not within slapping distance. "Your mother told me about your attitude today." My side of the story doesn't count. "You will apologize to her right now, or you will be grounded for the rest of the week." Why am I not afraid of this punishment at all. "Do you understand me?" I nod. "I asked you if you understand me." 

"I understand," I grunt. He beckons to Mother, who eagerly trots into the room. 

"Wendy?" she addresses me. 

"I'm sorry for my behavior," I say. 

"It's good to know that you have the maturity to apologize," she commends me. I don't even grace her with a reply as I go to the door. 

"I'm going on a walk," I tell my parents.

"But Wendy, we're going to be eating dinner soon!" Mother protests. 

"I'll heat up mine," I suggest. 

"Wendy, you haven't spent any time with us," Mother complains.

"I drove you to the places you wanted to go to," I respond, leaving the house. I run down the sidewalk and into the forest, breathing erratic, body corroded with acid, eyes stinging, cheeks burning. I think of anything else. I think of the sun in San Francisco, the little book store, the library, the beach, the water, the buildings, the ice cream. I think of the smokers loitering on corners, the kids hurling rocks at each other, the shop-sweepers, the hairdressers, the convenience stores, the restaurants, my favorite English teacher, Mrs. Woods, the corner by the window that was mine, Rachel, writing club, the school band's flute section. I think of how they miss me, how they haven't written me once, don't they miss me? 

When I stop running, I'm deep in the forest and the sun's still shining through the cracks in the canopies. I plop down onto the grass and sit there for a long while, staring up at the leaves. No people here. Just me. I breathe evenly. I'm safe here. I'm safe here. This is my second haven to my room. It's quiet except for the birds chirping and it's lovely. So I stay for a little while longer. 

I hear a rustling behind me. 

"Hello?" a voice says from behind me. I turn. A girl and a boy are walking side by side, skin dark, eyebrows thick, hair black as my house at night and they're stunning and gorgeous and why can't I have eyebrows like them and a jaw that defined and a nose so sharp?

"Hi there," I say, scrambling to my feet and dusting myself off. 

"Are you alright?" the boy asks me. 

"Yeah. I'm fine," I say, smiling. The pair share a look.

"I'm Tiger Lily," she says, "and this is Brandon. But you can call me Morgan if you want. That's what most people call me, anyway."

"I don't have such a beautiful name as yours," I admit. "I'm Wendy." 

"Nice to meet you," says Brandon, shaking my hand. 

"You too," I say. He releases my hand. "I'm new around here."

"Really?" says Morgan, sitting. Brandon follows, and I join them. 

"Yeah." 

"Where're you from?" asks Brandon.

"San Fran," I answer.

"Is it nice out there?" inquires Morgan.

"Define nice," I grin. Morgan and Brandon laugh. "I mean, yeah, it's sunny out there, but jeez, it's too hilly out there. Too much traffic, too."

"People," says Morgan. "In large doses, they're awful." 

"Tell me about it," I agree.

"Why can't people just take a hint? Sometimes I need to be by myself," says Morgan, "and then they're all, 'why are you so rude?' I'm not rude, I'm just tired of you, bitch."

"My mom's the same way," I say. "She's like, 'why are you in your room all the time?' And I always go, 'well, I don't exactly know anyone here, and I just want to read.' Why can't people just get it?"

"And I hate when people pretend that they're trying to help you by throwing you into a room full of people," says Brandon. "Am I supposed to know them, or laugh with them? Are they supposed to make me feel good about myself? Because they don't. Just because I don't want to talk doesn't mean I'm an ass." He takes out a ziploc filled with green clumps and a little piece of paper, rolling the green stuff inside it. He lights it, inhaling the smoke before exhaling a puff after a long few seconds. "People suck, man." Morgan snatches the makeshift bean from him.

"Can't be a bogart with the bud," she reprimands him, taking a drag from it. "You want some? Looks to me like you've had a rough day." 

"Don't mind if I do," I say, even though I've never smoked anything before. But these people are cool and they're nice to me, so it can't be that bad, right? I accept the cigarette, eyeing it for a moment before breathing it in. I cough, and Brandon slaps my back. 

"You alright there?" Morgan laughs. 

"Yeah," I wheeze, "fine." 

"First time?" says Brandon. I nod. 

"Don't be shy, Wen," says Morgan. "We're all friends here." I smile at her. 

"Yeah, we are," I agree, trying again. This time it's easier, and I expel a gushing stream of gray matter from my mouth. I laugh. Morgan joins in, as does Brandon. "This stuff is tubular!" 

"Bangin'," supplies Brandon. 

"Killin' it!" exclaims Morgan, pointing up at the sky. We laugh together again to fill the silence and to justify our clouded minds. 

"I'm flying," I whisper, staring up at the sky, stomach cartwheeling, arms outstretched, the wind beneath my wings, the clouds so close and the ground so far, never coming down, "never gonna put my feet back down on the ground," sings David Gahan. 

"Y'know who else said that the first time they got high?" says Morgan.

"Who?" I whisper, sprawling out across the forest floor. 

"Peter Hawthorne, that wise-ass," she snickers. 

"Who's Peter Hawthorne?" I ask. 

"Don't worry, you'll know him. Everybody knows 'im," says Brandon with a scowl. 

"What's your problem with 'im?" I ask, rolling over. 

"He's…a rascal, that's what he is," says Brandon finally. "I mean, yeah, I get hating that we all gotta grow up, but he's buggin'. Won't even admit that he's a senior now." 

"Whoa," I say. "That's weird." 

"But he's a good time and a party's not a party without him," Morgan says in his defense. "Yeah, he's freaking crazy, but he knows how to spice things up." 

"Drama always involves him. He's pranked Principal Hook more than twenty times in his illustrious high school career," Brandon divulges. 

"Seriously? Who even has the time to do that? And how's he gotten away with it?" I ask.

"That's the thing. He doesn't talk about it, but we know it's him. Just one of those things, y'know?" says Morgan. "Hey, stop being a hog, Wen, and pass me the bean." I do as she requests, but not before taking another drag myself. Morgan slaps my hand when I do, wresting the cigarette from my hand. "You gotta hang out with us again sometime. Where do you live?" 

"Just up on the street over that way," I say. 

"Cool. Meet us here tomorrow afternoon," says Brandon. I smile.

"Sure." And that's how I became friends with Brandon and Morgan, the two coolest people I'd ever met.


	3. At the Zoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bell pretended not to remember me, Slightly had good taste in music, and Tootles nearly ruined everything. And then there's Peter. I guess he's deep?

It takes a long walk to silence my thoughts, to appreciate the dilapidated scenery. Another cloudy day. I feel no sadness at this prospect. Not anymore. I've resigned to the inevitable—we're staying in this forsaken place, a place where no king would ever think to land despite its name. Oh, this place is a gold mine for irony. Brandon and Morgan laughed when I told them this. Brandon and Morgan laugh at most of the things I say. 

Sometimes it feels like they might be laughing at me. Maybe it's just the weed. Sometimes it's hard. 

Take yesterday for instance. 

"Remember that time in kindergarten-" Brandon had begun. Morgan had covered his mouth. 

"We don't talk about that," she hissed, face as red as an evening sky. Brandon spoke although his words were muffled and I could not make sense of them. Morgan released him after a moment. "We don't talk about it," she repeated to me more firmly. A sharp sting registered in my chest. Why wouldn't they let me in?

I tried to cover it up. Instead of grimacing, I had arched a brow. 

"Talk about what?" I had replied cheekily. They had laughed. We were okay again. This was good. (I just wish they'd explain the joke.)

They're convinced that everything I do is funny. I suppose it's a nice change from the boring, gawky nerd I was labeled as before. Still…if I knew I was this funny, I would've invested some time in developing my own personal comedic flair. Then maybe the chaotic coliseum that was high school in San Francisco would've been easier to navigate. There I go with the postulating, again. What-ifs have always been a plague of mine. 

The people I pass on the way to the record store are all similar in features. Brown hair, brown eyes, freckles. As average as average gets.

 

In a sea of brunettes, my eyes are drawn to one head of silvery blonde hair. I squint. The roots are brown. So it's a bad dye-job. She tried. Her hair is short, her body stick thin, and she's sharp angles and steel and I'm sure her face is beautiful. I hasten to pass her, hoping that I can glimpse her in my peripherals. When I see her profile, I try not to flounder or make a sign of recognition. Play it cool, Wendy. 

I pretend to look at her for the first time, and I paste a look of recognition onto my face. For a moment, I just stare at her, willing her to see me. When she does, I wish she didn't. Bell arches a plucked and penciled brow. 

"Bell? Is that you?" I gasp. I started it. May as well finish it. 

"Who are you?" she asks me, voice flat as the sidewalk. Her face betrays no trace of recognition for an awkward five seconds of silence between us. How do I know it's been five seconds? I count. So far I'm doing better than usual. 

"It's me, Wendy. We were friends when we were kids, remember?" I prompt her. Bell squints at my face, trying to discern me from the throng of people surrounding us. It doesn't look like it's working. 

"Um, I'm sorry, but I don't think we've ever met before," Bell tells me with that weirded-out voice that translates to, "You're disgusting and right now you're embarrassing me, please leave." She may as well have sucker-punched me, the way my stomach clenches and the breath is torn from my lungs and my eyes water against my volition. My cheeks burn red hot and suddenly the temperature is at least fifty degrees hotter, heart plangent in my ears. 

"Oh," I laugh with a twitching smile, "sorry about that." I walk as fast as I can away from her. If you listen close enough, you can hear the sound effect played when Scooby and Shaggy scram from the villain, leaving a puffy dust cloud in their wake. 

I honestly wish that our paths will never again intersect. My traitorous mind recalls the song, "It's a Small World." God that ride is irritating. 

You know how you completely fuck something up, and afterwards you feel like you completely destroyed your image in front of that person, making yourself irredeemable in their eyes, feeling like they'll never forget that moment of absolute self-deprecation? After those moments I tend to flee from the person in question with all the desperate abandon of Wilma Rudolph in 1956, take at least a year to mend my self-esteem, and go before the person only when I'm confident enough that I won't completely fuck it up again. Is this irregular, an indication that I have severe social issues? It might be. But the weed helps. 

Morgan says it always does. 

\---

The first thing I think when I enter the record store is that the dust bobbing along in the air looks like fairies in the sunlight. I shake my head. Maybe the bean is getting to me. The space behind the cash register where an employee might normally stand is empty. A raspy saxophone bellows through the speaker, joined soon by a melancholy piano. The music captures that feeling of an unspoken yearning that you think no one else really understands, the tendrils of a dream you just can't reach, and the dusky percussion synchronizes with the beating of my tender heart. My gait sways as my fingers skim the record aisles. 

I don't know what I'm looking for yet, but in a dingy record store with as diverse a selection as this one, I'm sure I'll scrounge up something. This record store might be the best metaphor for its town. For one, it's got an antiquated, forlorn sort of feeling, like it's been neglected for decades. The gray walls don't contrast with the skies that always threaten torrential downpours. I wouldn't really be surprised if the Weather Girls got their idea for the song, "It's Raining Men" from this place. I'm not kidding. All the music I can find is something an older person would appreciate. Nothing new, no Billy Idol, no Weather Girls, no Duran Duran, no Run DMC or Aerosmith or ACDC or Metallica. I must be in the Doldrums, proper Phantom Tollbooth style. 

At least they have Simon and Garfunkel. And Bob Dylan. I appreciate those old folks. After reading the discount offers on the records (because apparently no one else comes here), I figure I can afford the cost. It's well worth it. 

I carry the records to the counter and lean on my elbows, craning my head forward to scan the area. I retreat, sighing. I use my knuckles to rap the counter. When there's no response, I start to worry that I've walked into a zombie movie. 

"Hello?" I call out. No. Bad idea. If monsters, stay quiet. Horror movies have taught me worthwhile lessons about keeping my mouth shut in a dark basement when one has found a successful hiding place. Horror movies have also taught me not to venture into said basement. I feel pretty stupid right now. I ventured into the basement. Not literally, but…okay, I'll stop now. 

The bell rings on the door behind the counter and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

"Sorry 'bout that, I was just finishing my sandwich," says the boy manning the cash register. A mop of (surprise surprise) brown hair, ruddy skin, a tall, wiry frame. He's around my age, too. His face is nice. 

"No problem," I say after a moment. 

"Simon and Garfunkel," he reads aloud, lips curling into a smile. He strikes me as one of those boys you might see with twinkling, mischievous eyes and a wicked smile to go with it, because that's where his smile goes at first before it decides to cross into more innocent territory. 

"What?" I say, laughing, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. 

"Nobody buys Simon and Garfunkel," he tells me. "Thought I'd never meet another fan."

"Which is your favorite?" I ask him. 

"At the Zoo," he answers. "Yours?"

"The Dangling Conversation," I reply.

"Jeez, Debbie Downer, cool it," he jokes, ringing up the records. 

"I don't know, I just really like the lyrics. It makes sense to me," I say, rocking back and forth against the counter.

"At the Zoo's bangin' because it makes fun of people and our idea of sophistication. We're really not that different from animals," he says as he bags the records. 

"I don't doubt that," I say, grinning as I accept the bag from him. 

"So…Bob Dylan," he says next with the exact expression I knew he was capable of making. There's a boastful twist of his lips, that sheen in his eyes. He's teasing me. 

"Any favorites in that category?" I inquire. 

"Gotta say it's Tambourine Man."

"Typical," I scoff.

"Yeah? And what's yours?" he challenges me. I have the decency to blush, casting my gaze aside. "Well?"  
I recollect myself, force down the blush, and meet his eyes. 

"Just Like a Woman," I say. 

"Never heard that one," he admits after a while. His eyebrows furrow. "We've been talking for a good long while and we don't even know each other's names."

"That's right!" I exclaim. 

"I'm Sam, but my friends call me Slightly."

"And why's that?" I inquire.

"'Cause I'm slightly everything," he laughs. "You?"

"Wendy," I say. 

"That's a lovely name," he remarks. "But mine is slightly better." I guffaw. 

"You're really gonna use that as a pun?"

"C'mon, I put some thought into that!" Sam whines. 

"Really? A mule could've done it," I taunt him. 

"Well a mule could've named her daughter Wendy, too. I'm sure her daughter would look pretty similar," he jests. 

"At least I'm not slightly irritating and slightly unoriginal," I counter. 

"Damn, girl!" he exclaims. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Around," I say coyly. 

"Clearly," he mutters. 

"Are you implying something there?" I ask him. 

"No, ma'am," he says in this dead serious way with his spine all rigid that has me buckling over laughing all over again. "Y'know, I've never seen a girl with nice curly hair," he tells me, "until I met you today."

"Really?" I say, and I'm really shocked because curly hair really isn't that uncommon and I've seen hair that's so much smoother than mine.

"Really," he affirms. "You kind of look like an angel." 

Well, this got awkward really fast. Our whole banter takes a plunge into depths that I'm not sure I can skedaddle out of. Dammit, I'm probably gonna kill it. Or maybe he just did. Ugh, why am I thinking?

"Er…thanks?" I say.

"At least take a compliment," he reprimands me. "It takes guts and effort for me to apply them to other people." His face is so red and it's endearing, but I'm still too flustered to sound intelligent right now. Damn you, with that slightly mood-killing comment. Yeah, I realize that was pathetic too. 

"It takes guts for me to accept them from other people," I quip. Bam! Nailed it big time!

"I get that," he says, shrugging. "So, tell me about my smoldering eyes, why don't you?"

"Now you're getting slightly arrogant," I mock him. 

"Not slightly, completely," he corrects me. 

"I apologize," I say in a deadpan. 

"No offense taken, ma'am." 

It's nice, because Sam's easy to have a back-and-forth with, kind of like in jazz improvs with the call-and-response mechanism. We can trust the other to salvage the conversation from awkward silence. 

"So you have the best photographic memory in this group of friends of yours?" I say. 

"Definitely," he tells me with a puffed-up chest, and I'm sure that his ego has reached the size of Jupiter by now. "I'm the guy who remembers everything that happened in the group, too. My memory is never questioned."

"Or your lack thereof," I drawl. Sam smirks at me. 

"Look at you, with all your fancy talk. So, you new here?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just got in from San Fran a few weeks back."

"Not bad, not bad." He doesn't ask me how it was over there, and I'm grateful for that. "So, any other friends here?"

"Just Morgan and Brandon," I say.

"Oh, those two. Dazed and confused, am I right?"

"And flower-drawing," I add. Sam grins. 

"You should meet more people. Would you like to go as my date to a party tomorrow night?" 

Mother and Father won't mind. They'll be happy I'm finally blooming as a social butterfly. Won't they?

"Sure," I answer. I refuse to regret this. 

"Where do you live?" I give him my address and he promises to walk me to the party because he can't drive just yet. Apparently Peter's the only one who can drive. 

"Who's Peter?" I ask.

"You mean you haven't heard of Peter Hawthorne?" 

"Morgan mentioned him once," I say. 

"He's the life of the party," chuckles Sam. "I'll have to introduce you. So, see you around?" I check outside. It's nearly dark out!

"Yeah, sounds good," I reply, nodding. I exit from the shop, speed-walking home.

\---

The instant I cross the threshold, it's like one of those movies. The lights flick on and Mother's lounging on the couch, beady eyes fixed on me. I smile one of those flimsy, uncomfortable smiles at her and attempt a wave.

"Where have you been?" she hisses. 

"Record store." I lift the bag. She snatches it from my hands, examining each record. She drops them back into the bag. 

"You could've gotten in trouble," she says. 

"I came home as fast as I could," I assure her. 

"Well, it wasn't fast enough," she scolds me. 

"I made a friend?" I try. 

"Really?" She's slightly skeptical—oh, shit, now this is going to become a habit, isn't it? I'm offended that she thinks I'm lying.

"Really," I repeat. 

"What's your friend's name?"

"Sam."

"Is it a boy?"

"Yeah."

"Do you like him?"

"Mom, we're just friends," I sigh, plopping down onto the couch. 

"Okay," she says slowly. "Go on up to bed." I comply with her soft-spoken request, bidding her goodnight before I march up to my quarters and lay in bed with another book. 

\---

I'm sitting on the couch, fidgeting in my Marianne Faithfull T-shirt and jeans, hands combing through my hair. Mother smacks my hand, and I wince. 

"Stop playing with your hair," she says as she goes to the kitchen. 

"Where're Mike and Jack?" I ask. 

"Playing in the neighborhood," she informs me, beginning the task of washing the dishes. 

"Grandma?"

"At her book group," Mother answers. 

"Dad?"

"Work," she sighs, scrubbing at a stubborn spot of food on a plate. The house goes quiet before Mother speaks up. "Where're you going tonight, that you're all made up?" 

It's true. I actually put effort into my appearance. Rachel's lessons in eyeliner and eyeshadow application really did me a favor. 

"Why, do I look bad?" I ask.

"No, you look very pretty," Mother says. "I'm just curious as to where you're going."

"My friends are going to be at a party, and Sam's picking me up to go," I respond. 

"Does he have a car?"

"No."

"Enjoy the walk, then."

"We will." Silence. 

The doorbell rings and I race to answer it before Mother can turn off the sink. Sam's standing there with a daisy. 

"Nice house, by the way," he greets me. I arch a brow, grabbing the daisy. He pouts at me. 

"You wanna come in while I put this where it won't dry out?" I offer. 

"Sure." Sam enters the house, and he doesn't look out of place. I go to my room, fill up a glass, and leave the daisy by the window before I zoom down the stairs to reconvene with my escort to my first ever party.   
"You ready?" asks Sam, offering me his arm. 

"As ever," I say, taking it. We stride from my house. "So, just so I have a picture of what I'm getting into, what kind of drugs are there going to be?"

"Well, you don't waste any time," he says. 

"I like to know what my choices will be," I say. 

"Well then, there'll probably be bean material, definite beer, not too sure about other stuff."

"Sounds good to me."

"Well, aren't you a rebel?"

"Unlike James Dean, I have a cause."

"There's always an upside to that," Sam acknowledges.

\---

When I say I expected craziness at a party, I didn't think it would be this crazy. 

The minute we enter the house, the heady stench of sweat, alcohol, and bean hits me like a cocktail of all the woes of puberty. I can hear music playing, and I want to say it's David Bowie, but I'm not really sure.

"Is it David Bowie?" I ask.

"It's David Bowie," Sam confirms. 

"Hey, Slightly, my man!" yells a blond-haired boy, a red Solo cup in hand filled with what can only be beer. 

"Nibs!" Sam exclaims, tackling his bro. Luckily no beer spills. Sam retreats from the gesture to pull me into the conversation. "This is Wendy. Wendy, Nigel Brisbaine, aka Nibs." 

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, your highness," Nigel grins with all the smarmy charm of a politician. Oh, this one is trouble. 

"And yours," I say with a mock curtsey. 

"Well, aren't you a lady?" says Nigel.

"I'm enough man for her, so don't even try," growls Sam. Nigel laughs, smacking Sam's shoulder, and Sam breaks into a smile. "No, we're just friends, right?" Oh no, he likes me. Shoot me now. 

"Yeah," I say slowly. 

"Let's get some alcohol in you," suggests Nigel, literally taking me under his wing. 

"Not yet," I say, shrugging him off. 

"Why not?" 

"I have a preferred drug," I tell him. 

"And what might that preference be?" he asks me with an intense gleam in his eye. 

"The bean," I say. "But there's also dancing." As I flit into the crowd of dancers, I can make out Nigel's reply: 

"She's a wild one, ain't she?" 

I toss my hands into the air and fly, spinning and spinning with the music, crashing in my ears. 

There's a tap on my shoulder and then I'm being pulled from my Elysium and I'm furious. 

"What's going on?" I ask. The boy is a cute blar if ever I've seen one, but that doesn't excuse the fact that he just tore me down. 

"Pete doesn't want you here," he tells me. "You shouldn't be here. Lost Boys invitees only."

"Slightly invited-"

"Then why've I never seen you before?" he asks me. 

"I'm new here-"

"And I'm a fuckin' unicorn," the boy interjects. 

"Look, all I know is that Slightly invited me, and that if Peter wants me to leave, then I won't bother him," I say. I'm trying to be reasonable, I really am. "I promise I won't cause any trouble."

"Bell told me what kind of person you are-"

"Bell said she didn't even recognize me today, so she can screw herself," I seethe. Wow, I don't know where this is coming from, but it is fun. 

"Bell said you were a slut who wanted to take Peter from us, and Bell's a Lost Boy, so back off."

"First off, I've never done anyone ever. Second, I've never met Peter. So there."

"How do I know you're honest?"

"She's with me," the boy who taught me to park tells him. "Tootles causing you trouble?" 

"No," I sigh. The fight's all gone, and now I'm just feeling anxious. Things'll just be easier if I go home, really. "He was being a good friend." I look him in the eyes as I say it because I want him to know that I understand that he's doing this because he thinks he's helping out a friend. Good motivation, bad expression. 

"Tootles," growls parking boy who made my name sound all weird. 

"Fine, Bell told me that she's here to take you away and seduce you," Tootles mumbles, and it's one of the most adorable sights I've ever seen. So that makes this boy Peter. Parking Boy Peter. It has a nice ring to it. 

"She can't even park straight," Peter jokes. "Slightly told me about her, and I know her. She's cool."

"Oh," says Tootles, shifting from foot to foot. "Well…this is…"

"Yeah," I laugh breathily. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," he insists. 

"Let's start over?" I suggest. 

"Sure." With a jerky nod, he flees the scene. I thought I was bad. 

"Morgan's been telling me all about you," Peter informs me, guiding me through the mass of dancing forms and into another room. 

"Really? What'd she say?" I inquire, trying to sound casual. 

"Relax, nothing bad," Peter says. I must've failed. 

"Well, that's always a good first sign," I say feebly. Dammit, get it together, Wendy! Peter doesn't entertain me with a response. Instead, we enter a room where Morgan's perched on the armrest of a couch, Bell sprawled across it. Both are smoking beans. 

"So, what's this I hear about Bell telling Tootles to knock Wendy off the guest list?" says Peter, grabbing the bean from Bell and taking a drag, puffing it out after a few seconds. Bell narrows her eyes at me. 

"It's like I said, she's a bad character," says Bell in a voice that can only be described as conniving. 

"Bell, get over yourself. You're just angry that you weren't the first person she met here," says Morgan. "She's cool." Morgan beckons me over to her, and, like I had so many times in the forest, I steal the bean from her fingers and take a drag, sitting against the couch. I stare up at the ceiling, closing my eyes and sighing. I return the bean to Morgan. 

"So, what's a girl from San Fran doing all the way out here?" asks Peter, eyeing the record collection. 

"Financial problems," I mumble. 

"Figures," says Bell. 

"Don't be so nasty," Morgan chastises her. Bell sulks. 

"I missed you, if it's any consolation," I say to Bell. 

"Peter missed you too after your little parking lesson," says Bell. 

"I'm sorry I suck at parking?" I try.

"Bell, peace, please," groans Peter, collapsing into a bean bag chair. He takes a sip from a red solo cup. 

"If you were an animal, whatd'you think you'd be?" Morgan asks when the silence becomes too unbearable. I mentally thank her. I hope karma's good to her. 

"A cat," Bell answers automatically.

"You always were obsessed," I say. Bell looks away. 

"I'd have to say I'd be a tiger," Morgan says. 

"I could see that, with your introverted tendencies and all," I agree. 

"Peter?" Morgan says, and it almost sounds pleading. She likes him. Peter takes another drag from his bean, exhaling loudly. 

"A fox," he says, and the grin says it all. He's Slightly's maker. He's the Lord of Mischief and Cunning. I can see it there on his face plain as day. 

"And you, Wen?" Morgan asks me. I contemplate on the matter for a few moments before replying, 

"I'd be a bird." 

"Who the hell wants to be a bird?" says Bell. "I mean, everything eats bird."

"They can fly," says Peter quietly. Bell and Morgan look at him, surprised that he spoke voluntarily. He looks surprised himself. "What? I'm just…" He sighs, slapping at the air. "Never mind." He takes another drag and looks away. 

"Birds don't just fly," I murmur, curling into a ball on the floor. I take a sip from the abandoned Solo cup. "They can see the world under them, they never have to endure the cold, and they can sing all they want no matter how terrible they sound. I think that's not a bad way to go, you get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I guess," says Morgan. "By the way, Bell, this is some good shit. Where'd you get it?"

"That guy by the cornerstore," says Bell. 

"It was expensive though," frowns Morgan.

"C'mon, it was worth it," says Bell, nudging Morgan's shoulder. Morgan smiles in agreement. 

"Damn well it was," says Peter, raising his bean before inhaling more of the stuff. 

\---

No one says goodbye to me when I leave the party and no one walks me home. Still, I had a nice time. I made some new friends, I met the notorious Peter Hawthorne, I drank a little, and I managed to dance a bit. But when I really think about it…this being on the brink of entering the fold of this big clique might just be worse than being alone. It's like being a person on the outside of a snowglobe, and there's a thin layer of glass separating me from being a part of their winter wonderland. It's torment. I don't know their inside jokes, I'm at least a bazillion times more awkward than them, and I'm not nearly as laid-back. To add to things, the references I made flew right over their heads. Is that normal? I don't know. It just felt bad, though. If I'm gonna do this friend gig, though, I may as well learn to do it right. If that means being a perpetual outsider in some respects, then I'll be okay, so long as I'm in on later stories and adventures. I hope that one day they'll include me. 

More than anything I want to be Peter's friend and Bell's friend and friends with the rest of the Lost Boys, really. They're a riot. Sam appreciates my taste in music. Morgan makes me feel like a proper comedian. Brandon gets my references. Tootles is a sweet kid. Nigel is a flirt. Peter's deep (I guess?). Bell's got a sharp mind. There's more of them, I know, but I have time to meet them yet. Three weeks and school starts. I shudder at the very thought. 

I never want to go back to school again.


End file.
